


Breathe

by pyxy_styx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Body Dysphoria, Derek is a Good Friend, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Self-Acceptance, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles Stilinski, all of the pack are really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyxy_styx/pseuds/pyxy_styx
Summary: Tumblr Prompt- Scott can’t breathe due to asthma, but sometimes Stiles wears his binder too long because he can’t breathe with or without it. (@illbeyourgentlemanstory)





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several months ago on my [tumblr](http://pyxyystyxx.tumblr.com/) for a prompt, and it is my first foray into writing Teen Wolf. I apologize if some of the charatarizations are off. Also, while I am genderfluid, everyone experiences being trans differently, so sorry if anyone disagrees with the portayal of Stiles.

Scott can’t breathe due to his asthma. It’s nothing new, not even the fact that he’s misplaced his inhaler again. It’s the reason why Stiles keeps one in his locker. After all, it’s nothing new, not even the not breathing part. Stiles is, unfortunately, rather familiar with the concept. There have been and still are many reasons Stiles can’t breathe. Stiles has had panic and anxiety attacks since his mother died, that’s when it all started. He was six at the time, and add that onto top of his ADHD and you had a recipe for disaster.

By the time Stiles turned ten he realized that something was wrong, something was off about him. He couldn’t quite tell what, but he didn’t feel like he fit in his skin. That feeling stayed and got progressively worse as he got older, started developing a figure, he wasn’t meant to have hips or breasts, it was wrong. It’s when he told his dad, that things got better… kind of. He discovered what the word transgender meant, discovered there was a word that fit what he was feeling, that he fit in somewhere. It made breathing easier. It helped that his panic attacks where lessening too. But, but he still had breasts, small as they were, still had hips, even if those weren’t so bad, but worst of all was that he still had, well…

But at the end of every day he just had to remember to breathe. “Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes.  
Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.” It was something he had discovered and sometimes it helps. Sometimes.

Now wasn’t it though, when his dysphoria was crushing him and swallowing him whole. It didn’t matter that nobody but Scott (who now no longer needed his inhaler, no longer had asthma, no longer worried about not being able to breathe, finally felt like he belonged and fit. Stiles tried not to be resentful), his dad, and his doctor’s knew. It didn’t matter that his chest was flat, that he didn’t menstruate because of the hormone therapy. It didn’t matter, Stiles knew, knew that his body didn’t fit. He just wanted to crawl out of his skin, shed it like a snake does after it’s outgrown itself. He wished he could, but he couldn’t and it mattered.

It is why he wore his binder, all day every day, regardless of whether or not it was healthy, despite what his doctors, his dad, Scott, or the internet said. He only took it off to shower or sleep, and only reluctantly, and if he didn’t sleep or shower for a few days, nobody had to know except him. After all, sometimes, Adderall was like that.

It was the first thing he put on in the morning, he wore it when he exercised because men had muscles (it didn’t matter that he was perpetuating the cycle of hyper-masculinity that ran rampant in today’s society, it helped), he wore it when he was fighting for his life against supernatural creatures, he wore it when he played lacrosse, when he was in class, when he studied, when he was hanging out with the pack, he wore it. Sometimes it hurt, made his chest ache, like his lungs were collapsing, caving, imploding. He was dying inside, so he figured, what did it matter that he couldn’t breathe. On days like this, when the feel of his skin made him shudder, and Scott couldn’t help, Stiles would run (it made the aches and hurt worse but he didn’t care). He would start in the woods (by the Hale house because it was relatively safe and he’s been caught and captured and kidnapped too many times in too many other places to risk going anywhere else) and run until he physically couldn’t anymore. At that point he would fall to his knees and wait until there was no black around his vision and he didn’t feel like his heart would explode.

Except, except this time, this time as he was running he felt it, like something giving way in his chest. He stopped, gasping for breath, clutching at his chest. Stiles didn’t even have the thought to call for help before he was falling into darkness.

When Stiles wakes up he can breathe just fine, even if his chest does feel a little weird. There is a faint beeping but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he floats towards consciousness. When Stiles finally opens his eyes it is to see the pack scattered around the room. Scott is sitting in the chair closest to the bed, Isaac is sitting in the other chair on the other side of the bed, his head resting against the edge. Lydia, Boyd, and Erica hovering around the door, and Derek pressed into the back corner of the room, like the creeper he is.

Stiles has a moment to wonder why he’s in here, wonder what happened to him this time when he remembered with suddenly clarity the pain in his chest. The next immediate thought had horror dawning on him as he noticed that something was missing. His binder was gone, and they could see, the pack could see him. Stiles could feel the panic enveloping him in a huge crashing wave. Anger and shame and fear and despair and panic and every other negative feeling all wrapped into one overtook him. The machine to monitor his heart rate started beeping frantically, the werewolves becoming overwhelmed by the smell of his emotions.

He couldn’t breathe. God damn it all, he couldn’t breathe.

There was darkness encroaching around his vision, his hands fluttered uselessly at his chest, the pack who had all been anxiously hovering now began to swim in his eyes. He passes out again before Melissa can arrive. The second time Stiles woke up it was dark, faint moonlight pouring in through the thin window curtain. He thought he was alone for a moment, until he sensed another presence in the room, and it could really only be one person at this point so he decided to get the inevitable conversation out of the way now. No point in holding off one’s own execution. 

“Stop being a creeper wolf, Creeper Wolf.” Stiles called out hoarsely. Derek stepped out of the dark corner of the room, scowl firmly in place. His arms crossed over his broad chest, and he looked more imposing and, well, dangerous then Stiles had ever seen him. He had never feared Derek, not really, but now laid up in this hospital bed, his secret exposed, he truly feared what Derek would do to him. Derek must have picked up on it too, a looked of confusion crossed his features as his nostrils flared, as if he thought he might be mistaken about what the smell could be. Realization appeared on his face after a moment though, and he seemed to shrink in on himself. His arms uncrossing and his hands going to his pockets, his shoulders curling in some, his back curving so he was slightly hunched. It was like watching a tiger declaw itself, the way Derek made himself look … smaller? open? vulnerable? soft? There was a word that was right at the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t quite grasp it, so Stiles left it alone and instead focused on Derek who was approaching the side of his bed and, subsequently, sitting down on it.

They stayed in a rather tense silence for a while. Stiles didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation so he resisted the urge to babble and waited. Eventually Stiles heard Derek sigh and he immediately tensed, that was Derek’s I-really-don’t-want-to-have-to-talk-about-this-any-more-than-you-do-but-it’s-going-to-happen-regardless sigh. “The doctor says you have two cracked ribs, and a rather significant amount of damage to a few others.” Derek said in his low baritone. Stiles swallowed roughly. Broken ribs meant bad things, aside from the physical ones of having broken bones, but more specifically it meant no binding, for a few months at the very least. What was he going to do? He couldn’t go around without it, it was non-negotiable. He could feel the panic from before creeping back in as he thought of trying to function without it. Derek grabbed his hand, and Stiles flinched, but didn’t try and move away. The grip wasn’t hard, or very strong. It seemed more like it was there for comfort and support. 

“Nobody is upset Stiles, at least not about,” Derek flicked his eyes down pointedly, it made Stiles want to cover his chest with his arms, but honestly he thinks that might hurt more than it was worth, “but we are… saddened by the fact you didn’t trust us with your secret. And rather upset that you injured yourself in the process.” Stiles thinks this is the most he’s ever heard Derek speak. He’s probably said more words since he sat down than he has since they met. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean to make you guys worry, it was… I just didn’t know how any of you would react or if you would be accepting or,” or if you would kick me out of the pack, “anything. I’m sorry.”

Derek sighed again and shook his head before giving Stiles a small smile and gently squeezing his hand. Derek stood and made his way to the door, turning right before he was about to walk out. “Your dad will be by in the morning once his shift is over. In the meantime, get some sleep.” Just as the door was closing Stiles called out a good night, which was softly returned. Then it was just him and his thoughts. They weren’t as chaotic as before and there was significantly less anxiety now. 

Stiles settled down and got comfortable, and was blissfully asleep less than a minute later.

Things became a little easier after that. Until Stiles could wear his binder he just wore too big hoodies, so not too different than what his usual style was, and even after that he really only wore it out in public. He stopped wearing it at home and at the pack house. Everyone was accepting and didn’t look at him any differently. It was liberating, freeing, like a weight had been lifted off his chest (pun definitely intended, and Stiles can’t wait until he can finally get top surgery because then he can make so many more terrible jokes). Derek was a major part in boosting his self-esteem and they eventually started dating (which, holy cow never in a million years did Stiles suspect that Derek would feel the same, it’s like a dream come true honestly). 

Stiles can breathe much easier now.


End file.
